Chapter 4: A Window Opens
1543 Words
Zace saved the number that night. Saved it under “Lilith,” though she had introduced herself first as Lily. He didn’t know why the name felt heavier, more real—but it did. Maybe because it sounded ancient, almost mythic. Maybe because it didn’t sound like a distraction.
Lilith was not the name of someone you forget in the morning. It was a name you carved into tree bark. A name that carried curses and prophecy. A name that stayed.
He didn’t message right away. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, cigarette smoke curling toward the cheap fan above him. The air in his apartment was dense. Manila heat. Old sadness. The kind that didn’t always smell, but felt like a film over your skin.
Behind him, the ashtray was full again. The fan clicked at the end of each rotation like a tired metronome. The rhythm of days spent inside, nights pretending to matter. On the wall, a calendar hung untouched since April. It was June now. He just didn’t want to face it.
When he finally opened Viber and typed a greeting, his hands shook.
“Hey, it’s Zace. From the app.”
Simple. Distant. Safe.
The three gray dots appeared almost immediately.
“Hey! You made it. Must be fate.”
Fate. He stared at the word. What a reckless, arrogant thing to say. Fate had tried to kill him. Twice.
Still, he typed back:
“Or coincidence.”
Their conversation flowed easily that night. Not like a rushing stream, but a calm lake—quiet, reflective. They talked about their days. Complained about the Manila humidity. Shared what they had for dinner.
Lilith had rice and sardines. Zace had leftover adobo from his mom.
“Not glamorous,” he wrote. “But it fills me.”
“Simple food. Complex lives,” Lilith replied.
That line stayed with him. It sounded like a prayer and a wound at the same time.
They talked about sleep habits. Morning routines. Favorite brands of coffee. Comfort in mundanity. Connection through the small cracks of daily life.
At some point, he asked if they could connect on f*******:. Casual curiosity, maybe a quiet need.
Lilith paused.
“Not now,” she replied after a minute. “Maybe once we’re closer. There’s also something I want to share eventually… but I’ll delay it until then.”
Zace didn’t press. He knew what it meant to guard your truth. He lived behind a thousand locked doors himself. So he typed:
“That’s okay. Whenever you’re ready.”
They shifted the conversation to work. Zace told her about his current setup as a virtual assistant.
“Freelancing,” he said. “It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills. Keeps me from losing my mind.”
Lilith responded with a surprised emoji.
“You don’t strike me as the type.”
“What type?”
“The one who stays behind a screen. You write like someone who used to live out loud.”
He laughed. Quietly. Bitterly.
“Used to,” he replied.
FLASHBACK:
Once, he did live out loud. Loud enough to echo. Loud enough to matter.
Two years ago, he had been a man of volume. Loud laughter over beers. Loud confidence in meetings. Loud plans—real estate, crypto, wedding rings, dreams that clicked into place like puzzle pieces.
And then the scam. Then the silence.
The silence that moved in like an unwelcome tenant. The silence that tasted like rusted coins. The silence that settled in his bones and whispered that he was no longer allowed to speak loudly again.
Lilith told him about her job. A SPED teacher in Makati. She taught deaf students.
“Every day’s a mix of challenge and wonder,” she wrote.
Zace blinked.
“Deaf? Wow. That’s… I’ve never known anyone deaf before. I can’t imagine what it’s like—how to communicate, how to connect.”
“You will,” Lilith typed back. “I’ll introduce you to someone someday. Kapag close na tayo.”
Zace read that three times. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t bait.
It was an invitation. To a smaller, quieter room in her life. A room few were allowed to enter.
“I’d like that,” he finally wrote. “When you’re ready.”
The conversation drifted into silence. Not a cold one. But the kind of pause you trust. The kind where both people allow breath.
SYMBOLISM:
There was a window in Zace’s bedroom. Painted shut. Years of humidity and neglect had sealed it like a wound too old to open.
But that night, as he leaned against the wall, the edges seemed softer. The paint thinner. As if something might break open—just enough for air.
The next day, Lilith messaged him first.
“Do you want to learn how to sign?”
He blinked at the message. Smiled.
“Yeah, sure. As long as it’s free.”
He added a laughing emoji. Tried to keep it light. But he knew she caught the undertone.
“Haha. Nothing’s free these days. Besides, you should pay so you can get a certificate.”
“Maybe not now,” Zace replied. “Too many bills.”
It was the truth. He was still recovering financially from the collapse. Frugal not by nature—but by necessity. Money had once been a fortress. And when that fortress fell, all that was left was survival.
Lilith didn’t push. She just replied:
“No worries. When the time’s right.”
And that made him breathe easier.
No pressure.
Just space.
And that space… it was starting to feel like safety.
FLASHBACK:
The night of his first attempt was quiet. Not the gentle kind. The kind that screamed into your ears.
He sat in his car in a Taguig basement parking lot. No signal. No warning to anyone. Just Baygon and Smirnoff.
He left a goodbye message to no one in particular. Something poetic. Something stupid.
He remembered the taste of it. Metallic. Wrong.
He remembered waking up with vomit on his chest. Shame in his mouth.
He drove to Zambales the next day, still alive, still furious.
The second attempt was less elegant. The ocean. The pull of waves that didn’t want him either.
A fisherman found him. Dragged him back to shore like a disappointing catch.
That was a year ago.
Days passed. The exchanges didn’t stop.
Photos of food. Screenshots of playlists. Rants about electricity bills.
It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even a friendship yet. But it was consistent. And sometimes, that’s all you need when your soul is trying to grow roots again.
One afternoon, Lilith sent a photo from a gun range.
In it, she stood tall in a navy polo shirt, earmuffs on, holding a 9mm pistol with surprising confidence. Beside her was a teenage girl—Reine.
“That’s my daughter,” she typed. “She’s better than me.”
Zace studied the photo. The girl’s posture. Her focused eyes.
“Didn’t peg you as the gun range type,” he replied.
Lilith sent a smirking emoji.
“You’d be surprised. Reine’s got sharp instincts.”
He liked that. The discipline of shooting. The concentration. The quiet thrill of control.
“That’s cool,” he wrote. “I’m into that kind of thing too.”
Then he said:
“Let’s play something.”
“Okay?”
“Top 3s. Favorites. No explanations. Just answers.”
Lilith replied:
“Game.”
So they did.
Top 3 comfort foods.
Her: Sinigang, French fries, dark chocolate.
Him: Adobo, pancit canton, taho.
Top 3 places to cry.
Her: Shower, car, roof.
Him: Beach, under the desk, movie theater.
Top 3 worst decisions.
They both hesitated here.
Lilith answered first:
“Staying too long. Leaving too soon. Trusting someone twice.”
Zace replied:
“Same.”
By the end of the game, they were both quiet.
Then Lilith wrote:
“It’s nice to laugh with someone again.”
Zace stared at those words.
Laughed? Had he?
Then he realized… he had. For the first time in months.
He typed back:
“Me too.”
And meant it.
That night, the silence returned—but it felt different. Not like emptiness. Like rest.
SYMBOLISM:
The window creaked that night. Just a little. Just enough.
He stood up and touched it. Paint chipped under his fingers.
He didn’t open it.
But for the first time, he believed it might.
As Zace lay in bed, staring up again at the whirring fan, another silence returned. The kind carved into his bones. A flashback, slow and intrusive.
The first attempt.
The locked car. The poison. The apology no one would read.
The second attempt.
The ocean swallowing, then spitting him out.
And now—this. This odd digital tether. This woman with rice and sardines, and a daughter who could shoot straighter than he ever had.
Lilith.
He whispered aloud: “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”
But Lilith’s words echoed in his screen’s memory:
“Simple food. Complex lives.”
He exhaled.
He didn’t know if he wanted to live.
But he wanted to talk to her again.
And for now, that was enough.
- Writer
